


An Invincible Summer

by Avierra



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:52:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1875486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avierra/pseuds/Avierra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For  daegaer’s prompt: Sanzo-ikkou!noir - detectives, femme fatales (possibly a kappa fatale), mysterious strangers, McGuffins</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Invincible Summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daegaer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/gifts).



**Fandom:** Saiyuki  
 **Theme:** Tanabata Challenge: I will Find You  
 **Title:** An Invincible Summer               
 **Author/Artist:** Avierra  
 **Warnings:** NSFW  
 **Pairing(s):** Hakkai/ Gojyo  
 **Notes:** For [**daegaer**](http://daegaer.livejournal.com/)’s prompt: Sanzo-ikkou!noir - detectives, femme fatales (possibly a kappa fatale), mysterious strangers, McGuffins. Fandom Favorite Points for Kenren

Super Note: SO MUCH LOVE for Lauand and her lengthy and detailed explanations of a number of aspects of naming conventions and culture. I am only sorry most of it turned into character development and story ideas rather than exposition. <3

 

 

“How can I help you, Mister…?” said Henry Coshun to the unlikely creature sitting across from him. The creature’s eyes flicked briefly to the new marquee over the door to his office. It was backwards, of course, but still clearly readable:

_Coshun & Trespalacios _

_Legal Investigations_

_Discreet_

_Satisfaction Guaranteed_

_Confidentiality Assured_

The bright red paint, picked up pre-mixed at a discount, was not quite dry. That was a pity, because the heavens chose that moment to open up with a deluge of driving rain. The letters on the marquee trailed in bloody runnels down the window. The raindrops were a hail of bullets against the sidewalk outside the office suite.

“It’s Quintín… Arenas,” said the creature, and slouched back in his chair. He patted the pockets of his leather bomber jacket, and absently lit up a cigarette. The jacket looked like the real deal, the leather worn and scarred from heavy use. Henry pushed a pristine ashtray across the desk. “I know Rivera from way back. Been trying to touch base with him. This is something he’d be interested in, probably.” He looked expectantly at Henry. His voice held the faintest traces of soft Spanish inflections.

“Ah,” intoned Henry. He took a closer look at the creature. He supposed if this was going to be his first client that he should stop thinking about him as “the creature,” but it was difficult. There was something a little unreal about Mr. Arenas; whether it was the implausibly red hair, escaped from whatever ridiculous slicked-back style he had affected; the long jean-clad legs that seemed to go on forever; or the winsome smile and generous face-- it was hard to say. Maybe it was just the baritone voice loaded with what Henry wouldn’t hesitate to call charisma, although of course he personally was not susceptible to that sort of thing. It was just that Mr. Arenas was a bit too… everything. And the easy charm seemed, well, too easy.

But right now the smile and bright eyes and all that charm were focused entirely on him. “You see,” the deep voice murmured, “I am trying to find someone.” He gestured vaguely with the cigarette, and Henry realized he hadn’t actually smoked any of it.

“Very well.” Trespalacios was trying to all new steer business his way, although honestly, this person did not look much like someone that Rivera Trespalacios of all people would associate with. He grabbed some paper and a pen. “Tell me what you know.”

“OK, well. There’s a guy, see. An old friend, but I haven’t seen him around in a while. Shows up every now and then and usually leaves a lot of problems behind him when he skips out. I’m trying to figure out where he is.”

Henry sighed. “Name, age, description, last known residence?”

“Oh, sorry.” Arenas smiled, and Henry forgot to be annoyed for a moment. “His name is Benny, uh Wilde. At least that’s the only name I’ve ever known him by. He says he’s a member of the Demons.” He sounded skeptical, but continued. “Or he was. He has a way of wearing out his welcome. Welcomes. He’s about 30, I guess, about 5’9”, sandy blond. Shaves his eyebrows.” Henry looked over the top of his glasses, and Arenas shrugged. “He thinks it makes him look dangerous. Um. His last known address would be with me.” There was a trace of sheepishness in the deep voice. “He isn’t there now. But I know he’s around.”

“How do you know that?”

“’Cause he left this on my door yesterday.” Arenas dug around in his jacket and handed over a folded square of paper.

_Sorry I missed you. Be seeing you around. –B_

“That doesn’t sound too threatening.”

“Doesn’t matter what it sounds like to you. I need to know where he is, is all, without him knowing I am trying to figure out where he is. Your firm can handle that, right? I don’t want to go somewhere else. I know Rivera will keep it under wraps. Other than that, I can deal with the rest of his bullshit myself.” The fingers of his right hand clenched white on the armrest of his chair, and for just a second the voice and eyes went very hard. Henry abruptly found himself intrigued. So Quintín Arenas wasn’t nearly as feckless as he made himself out to be.

“Mr. Arenas—”

“Quinto.” The smile came back, impossibly bright, and the velvet eyes focused on him again.

“Quinto then. Apparently you are not afraid of this person…”

“Eh. Not really. He’s a fuckup. But he has a way of dragging other people down with him, and I can’t—.” He frowned suddenly, his gaze going distant. “Maybe this was a bad idea. You know what, never mind. Tell Rivera… _Trespalacios_ …” this was accompanied by a noise that sounded a lot like a derisive snort, “please tell him I said hi.” He unfolded himself from his chair and shook Henry’s hand. A strip of tanned skin flashed at the edge of his jeans. His grip was very firm and very warm. “Thanks for your time, how much do I owe you?”

“The first consultation is free, but--”

“Seeya.” Quintín Arenas turned towards the door and waved an airy goodbye over his shoulder. The bell over the door tinkled as his first client breezed out. Henry watched as he turned his face into the driving rain and let it wash over him for a moment, his hair plastered in dark strings over his face and neck. Then he turned his collar up and slouched off down the street, hands in his jacket pockets.

Trespalacios opened the door of his office and sat on the corner of Henry’s desk, taking a furious drag off his cigarette. “That could have gone better.” His purple eyes were irritated; the ash from his cigarette dropped onto the pants of his charcoal-grey suit. He carelessly brushed it onto the floor, and Henry felt his (perfectly-trimmed) nails bite into his palm. Controlling his obsessive need for order had become easier over the last year or so, but there were times, like now, that he had to forcibly prevent himself from getting a broom.

“Trust that asshole to throw a wrench into a perfectly good plan,” Trespalacios was saying.

“Mm. The plan where you hired me so that you don’t have to talk to anyone? I thought that went rather well, actually.”

Trespalacios gave him a narrow look. “That wasn’t the entire reason. I haven’t been here, and I do need someone to run the office.”

Henry shrugged. “At any rate, I couldn’t very well tie him to the chair. And at least we have a starting point.” He handed over the note. “Have you ever heard of this person? Benny Wilde?”

“No, but Arenas mentioned the Demons, and them I do know about. They’re a gang on the east side, theft and fencing mostly; some smuggling, some drugs, some prostitution, some kidnapping and extortion. Word on the street is they’re up to something really bad, but no one seems to know exactly what.” He thought about it. “One thing I’ve heard… Their boss mailed a kid’s stuffed rabbit with the guts pulled out of it to the kid’s mother. Carefully arranged the stuffing around it, with one little spot of blood on it, right over where the heart would be. Guess that’s his idea of ‘conveying a message.’ The parents paid up and got the kid back rather than trying to negotiate any further. But he wasn’t right when they got him back, couldn’t sleep at night, constant nightmares. I don’t know what the Demons did to him, but.”

“And you think Mr. Arenas is mixed up with them?” He hadn’t seemed like a hoodlum, but Henry Coshun of all people knew exactly how deceiving appearances could be.

Trespalacios exhaled, the plume of smoke curling up above his golden head. “Maybe once upon a time. Not now, though. He’s a punk, but occasionally he’s useful for taking out the trash. But there is no way that shithead is not up to his fucking eyeballs in some sort of trouble. He’s a fucking trouble _magnet_.”

Henry refused to flinch. “I see.” It was, after all, pretty much where he stood with Trespalacios as well. Those sharp purple eyes skimmed over his face, and Henry wondered what he was thinking.

“In the meantime, see if you can scare up anything about this Benny Wilde. “

***

It didn’t take long for Henry’s research to pay off using Quintín Arenas’ own given address as a starting point. One of the local bartenders he talked to sported a bruised cheek and a black eye. He told Henry to steer clear of Benny, but declined to say why. “You seem like a good egg. Don’t know why you’d want to find that bum.” A five-spot helped reassure him as to Henry’s good intentions. The bartender shrugged and offered, “Hangs around on 10th Street sometimes. Him and his punk pals. That’s all I know.” His eyes skittered away; he pocketed the five dollar bill and resumed polishing shot glasses with a grimy rag.

The east side of the city was notorious for its seediness; the police rarely answered calls for assistance there. The waterfront sprawled on one side of the district with derelict ships and rusting cranes; the tawdry red-light district angled outwards, its working girls dressed in vulgar finery to entice drunks from the many bars. The river effectively sectioned the entire area off, as if a surgeon had made a decision to cut a cancer off from the rest of the city’s body. Arenas’s apartment was in a side street tenement, but there was no indication that anyone at all lived there. A rat ran around the corner and paused to look at him, utterly unafraid, before taking off again. The entire building was quiet, as if it were occupied by ghosts instead of humans. The hallways smelled of damp concrete and mold.

There was a note on Arenas’ door, and when he took it, it the door swung open. He took the note and glanced at it briefly.

_Come on, don’t be that way. I’m trying to help you out here. CALL ME YOU ASSHOLE._

It was unsigned, but he recognized the writing. He stuck it in his pocket.

“Mr. Arenas? Quinto?” He entered the apartment. It looked like it had been tossed: there wasn’t a clean surface anywhere, but the broken dishes and bent cutlery on top of the smashed table were the kickers. No one was home. Henry took a good look around: two bedrooms, both probably used in the recent past. One of the rooms had comic book covers of Superman and Batman taped on the wall. The other had an overturned ashtray; the butts had been carefully strewn around so that no surface remained free of ash and dirt. A couple of gentleman’s magazines had been crumpled and torn and the pieces scattered into bits of flesh-colored confetti, and the sheets in both rooms had been slashed. Most disturbing of all was the fact that acid, or some corrosive, had been splashed across the few items of clothing hanging up.

He took it all in for a moment. It all seemed oddly personal, specifically malevolent. He heard a choked sound behind him and whirled around, his hand already reaching into his coat.

Quintín Arenas stood stock still staring at the mess, mouth slightly open, the gun in his left hand pointed at him. Henry couldn’t help but note the business end didn’t waver, even while Quintín took stock of the situation.

The easy charm wasn’t much in evidence now. “Take your hands out of your coat.” Henry very slowly, carefully held up his hands. He didn’t want there to be any irrevocable mistakes, for either of them. “What are you doing here?” The deep voice was even, but Henry couldn’t miss the stunned, lost expression Quintín was trying, poorly, to conceal.

“I came to talk to you about your case,” Henry said. “Maybe we should get a cup of coffee somewhere. This probably isn’t the best place to be.”

Quintín stared at him for a second, then started to laugh. “No shit.” He tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants. “Come on.” He kicked the door on the way out, then turned and carefully locked it.

They walked a ways down the road. Henry had to carefully watch where he stepped in the filthy street, but Quintín didn’t seem to care much. He also didn’t get dirty, which was quite a feat.

“Where’s Rivera?” Quintín asked abruptly. He’d been silent, in deep thought while they walked. “I need to talk to him. About something.”

“He was at the office the last time I saw him, but I don’t actually keep up with his movements. You could call him, perhaps.”

Quintín glanced at him sideways through his hair. “I _have_ called him, the haughty fuck.” He laughed, and there was so much bitterness there that Henry was taken aback. “Shit.” He paused in front of a doorway and lit up a cigarette, took a deep drag. “Sorry about that. Here we go, this place has decent joe. Good food too.”

They ordered lunch. “What happened at your apartment?” asked Henry.

Quinto put down his sandwich and turned a blinding smile and melting eyes his way. The application of so much effort to deflect his inquiries should have been annoying, or maybe mesmerizing, but Henry was actually amused. “Eh. I’m not sure.” His voice had reacquired the sultry undertone as well. That voice should have been bottled and sold.

“It seemed rather personal,” Henry continued.

“It’s a surprise to me too, but some people just don’t like me,” Quintín said sweetly, and resumed eating his sandwich. His posture was a little stiff, as if he was holding himself in readiness for something, and it was an odd juxtaposition with the deliberately come-hither expression.

“What are your plans now?” Henry was genuinely curious. The apartment hadn’t shown the slightest evidence of someone who had any sort of finances or resources at his disposal. Quintín Arenas was definitely poor and probably broke. And Henry hadn’t forgotten about the second room in that apartment, the one with the comic books. A child, perhaps? It was interesting, to say the least, that Quintín hadn’t mentioned the other inhabitant at all, as if he were trying to pretend whoever it was didn’t exist.

Quintín took a drink of coffee and sighed. “Suppose I’ll have to find a new flop.” He sounded unenthused, and very tired, his fingers raking distractedly through his hair.

“Hmm. Well, I have a spare room. You could stay there until you find something more to your liking,” Henry was utterly shocked to hear himself say. And yet, the more he thought about it, the better an idea it seemed. Trespalacios wanted to keep tabs on Quintín, although Henry had no clear idea why except he seemed worried about something; Quintín needed a place to stay; and Henry, apparently having found an unexpected piece of living heart, found some sort of kindred spirit with someone so down on his luck. Whatever the reason, he wanted to help.

But Quintín was shaking his head, his grin rueful and a little embarrassed. Henry much preferred this more subtle version of Mr. Arenas. “I couldn’t put you to the trouble.”

“It wouldn’t be much trouble, I assure you. I wouldn’t offer otherwise.”

“Why? Why is someone like you making the offer?”

“Someone like me?” Henry raised an eyebrow.

“Well look. You’re good-looking, successful, well-off. You’re going places. Why help out a mook you met a couple of days ago?”

Henry would have laughed, but he was afraid of what it would sound like. That analysis was so far off the mark it might as well have been in orbit. “Trespalacios knows and vouches you, for one.” For some definitions of “vouch,” anyway. “And I... owe him.”

Quintín snickered and covered his mouth with his hand to hide his smile. “Rivera vouches for me, does he? What I’d give to be a fly on the wall to hear what he actually said.”

“Well, in so many words, then,” Henry acknowledged. “But I really do have a room, and I really don’t mind offering it.”

“Hmmm.” He glanced at Henry assessingly through his lashes. “All right.” He sounded almost as if he were talking to himself. “Yeah, okay. Okay. That’ll work.”

“Excellent. Come along then.”

*****

Henry’s new apartment looked barely lived-in, even to him, and he didn’t miss the appraising survey Quintín gave both him and the area. But he didn’t say anything or ask any awkward questions, just collapsed on Henry’s couch (used, but in good condition, acquired from a moving sale) with a sigh, as if someone had cut his strings. “I feel like I could sleep for a thousand years.”

“Feel free,” Henry said. “It’s fairly comfortable.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” said Quintín, and closed his eyes. After a couple of minutes he was snoring softly; he must have been exhausted to fall asleep that fast. He looked much younger asleep. Henry threw a blanket over him, and retired to his room.

*****

He woke to someone quietly entering the bedroom, and sheer reflex made him palm the switchblade under his pillow. He could easily stab upwards through the pillow, it wouldn’t be the first time, and there would be blood and screams and terror and blood, and screaming and screaming and--

“Henry?” A deep voice in the darkness, a weight settled next to him on the bed. He gasped, and dropped the knife. The weight backed away. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Henry could have laughed. He was never scared, not anymore.

“You didn’t. Is something wrong?” He turned to look at his radium clock; it was a little after 3 AM.

“I heard you calling out. You okay?”

“Ahaha. In a manner of speaking, I suppose. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” He hadn’t been aware that he made sounds in his sleep, but it wasn’t surprising. He had vague memories of what he had been dreaming about.

He returned and sat next to Henry. His hand came out and rested on Henry’s shoulder, warm and steady. He could push it away if he wanted, or just move and pretend that there was no invitation there. He left it, and turned to face Quintín, and Henry heard him breathe out, as if in relief.

“Yeah, that’s what I was wondering,” Quintín said and leaned over and kissed Henry on the mouth, almost chastely.

Chastity was not a concept that particularly interested him; he reached up and grabbed the neck of Quintín’s undershirt and kissed him hard, his tongue demanding entrance.

Quintín huffed out a laugh, low and husky, and it curled in Henry’s gut. “And all right, I guess that’s my answer,” he whispered against Henry’s cheek. He slid in next to Henry, long body solid and warm, and Henry realized that his own hand was plastered tight against Quintín’s hip, pulling him closer. They fit together almost perfectly, cock to cock, leg to leg. Quintín slung one long leg over Henry’s lap, peering down at him. He apparently approved of what he saw in the shadows and smiled. “Yeah. God above you’re a stunner.” His voice sounded almost reverent. And Henry could feel him, hard and full against his thigh.

His hands skimmed down Henry’s shoulders, unbuttoning his pajama top along the way. He was very good at it, his mouth nipping at Henry’s throat, over his collarbone, peeling back the top to expose his chest. He was so careful, his lips trailing across the planes of Henry’s chest, down the length of, over the arch of his hips. His fingers edged into the tops of Henry’s pajama bottoms, and Henry caught at the roaming hands. Quintín stopped where he was, crouched above Henry, his face poised above Henry’s erection.

“Henry? You want to stop? Am I doing something wrong?” He sounded puzzled.

“Quintín, is… are you doing this because you’re staying here? Because—”

There was a long pause, and then Quintín straightened up. “I wasn’t,” he said, and his voice was very cool. “Unless that’s what you want?” The voice turned speculative, and the sultry note was back as well.

He could have strangled himself.

Henry could tell Quintín was staring down at him, thinking. He wished he could see his face. Then again, perhaps he was glad he couldn’t. “You want a whore in your bed, huh, Henry Coshun? I can do that. It wouldn’t even be the first time.” He bucked his hips against Henry. “I’ll make it soooo gooood for you, _encanto_ ,” he crooned.

Henry refused to think about that. “Stop that. Stop doing that.” He locked his leg behind Quintín’s knee, and rolled them both over. Quintín grunted in surprise as Henry came down squarely on top of him, pinning him down. “I just… I dislike misunderstandings.” He felt like an idiot.

“Yeah?” Quintín’s voice was challenging, but his hands rested against Henry’s chest, his fingers tracing little circles. A good shove would have sent Henry flying; he half expected it and knew he deserved it, but it didn’t come. Quintín’s body was taut and expectant against Henry, and he slid his thigh up to Henry’s waist. He twisted his fingers in Quintín’s hair.

“Maybe I’ll make it so good for you instead,” Henry whispered after what seemed like a long time. It burned in the air between them, and he kissed the corner of Quintín’s mouth.

He wound his arms around Henry’s neck and pulled him close. “Yeah, probably so.”

*****

When Henry woke the next morning, he’d half expected that he’d find that Quintín had quit both his bed and his apartment. Instead he found himself confronted with sprawled limbs and a wild tangle of red hair, and the sheets half on the floor. That was a pleasant surprise. He stared down into Quintín’s face. He was probably younger than Henry himself was. Still, he could look his fill in the bright morning light. Quintín was beautiful naked: long, clean limbs, shapely and well-proportioned. And the face, now that it wasn’t radiating carefully crafted allure, was also beautiful. The dark eyes opened, and he could see them clearly, almost red in the open sun.

“You’re gonna give me a complex.” Quintín’s voice was rough and groggy. “God it’s bright in here.” He slung an arm over his eyes.

Henry got up and closed the window and the curtain. Quintín’s eyes followed him as he pulled on underclothes and fresh pants.

“I have to go to the office and check on some things. Help yourself to anything you find in the icebox.”

“Yeah, all right. I have things to do too. Uh.” He paused. “If that shit… if _Rivera_ is in, can you tell him I need to talk to him? Since he’s apparently granting audiences rather than returning calls. It’s important, I promise, and I wouldn’t bug him otherwise. Which he should know, the bastard. Or you either, except it’s too late for that, isn’t it. _Fuck_.” He sighed and flopped back into the pillows, closing his eyes. “Fucking mess.” He sounded lost.

“Don’t worry. I will be quite sure to talk to Trespalacios.” He paused, not certain what else to say or do. He felt rather awkward. “I’ll be back this afternoon.”

“’Kay.” That decided him. He leaned down and kissed Quintín square on the mouth, and the dark eyes flew open, his expression almost comical with surprise turned to hazy pleasure. Henry immediately felt better.

“Bye.”

*****

Trespalacios was indeed waiting for him when he arrived, listening attentively while Henry described most of the previous day’s events.

“Are you _insane_?” snarled Trespalacios when Henry got to the part where he offered to let Quintín Arenas use his spare bedroom.

“Hmm. I do wonder at times,” offered Henry after considering it a moment. Trespalacios took a ferocious drag on his cigarette; his fingers were growing stained from smoking so much, Henry noted with disapproval. “Still, in any case, we know here he is now, if not what he’s up to. I suspect it has something to do with the other person who was living in his apartment. He hasn’t said a word about whomever it is.”

“A kid, huh?” Trespalacios was frowning thoughtfully. “That’s… interesting. Fine. I’ll meet with him. Tell him tomorrow evening would be a good time.”

“Should I hold your other calls for you, Mr. Trespalacios?” Henry smiled at him. “Or perhaps you’d like some coffee? Cream or sugar?”

Trespalacios stared at him suspiciously. “Coffee would be fine.” He paused and carefully added, “Thank you.” Henry smiled at him again, and he retreated into his office.

*****

Quintín was not in when Henry returned, and he was not surprised to find a suspicious amount of food missing from the icebox. He decided to get groceries, and by the time he’d returned with several bags, Quintín was sitting on the couch with the radio on, playing some four-handed card game against himself.

“Oh hey, let me help you with that.” He grabbed some of the bags, and had the grace to look abashed. “Sorry about the food. Guess I was hungrier than I thought.”

“It’s understandable,” said Henry. “You’ve apparently had quite a lot on your mind the last couple of days.” He cracked some eggs into a bowl and set bacon cooking on the back burner. The warm smell of toast and cooking food suffused the apartment.

“I guess.” Quintín seemed mesmerized by Henry’s dinner preparations.

“I was able to catch Trespalacios this morning, and he seems interested in whatever it is you have to say to him. Can you meet him tomorrow evening?” He started the coffee percolating.

Quintín’s attention snapped back to Henry’s face. “Oh, thank God,” he breathed. “I mean, good. Shit.” He fumbled for his cigarettes. “I’ll pay you back for all this, I swear.”

“I’ll invoice Trespalacios if necessary,” suggested Henry. “I am sure he won’t mind.”

Quintín grinned. “I’d love to see his face if you did, actually. But I can’t do that.” His gaze strayed longingly to the cooking food, and flicked away again, and he sighed almost inaudibly. “Oh well, back to my card game. Is there other stuff in the car?” Henry shook his head, and Quintín nodded and turned, then stood stock still and swayed slightly as if momentarily dizzy.

He gripped the edge of the counter and caught himself, panting a little, face devoid of color. It was the first movement Henry had seen from him that was not completely graceful. “Shit. Sorry about that. I guess—”

“Quintín.” Henry couldn’t bear to watch anymore.

“Yeah?” Quintín straightened, gripping the counter with white fingers.

“Sit down and eat dinner.”

Quintín stared at him and swallowed. “I already ate most of your food.” His voice was rough.

Henry took down two plates and filled them with food, pushing one across the counter.

“I am willing to play this out however you want, of course, but don’t you think we should collect your young friend?” His voice was very gentle.

Quintín flinched. “You shouldn’t be involved in this, trust me. Neither should Rivera, but he already is simply because he is my friend.” He sounded absolutely wretched.

“Well then, it’s probably a bit too late for me also, isn’t it.” He took a bite of eggs. “Can you tell me about it?”

“Hah. Fuck.” He thought about it. “How much do you know about Rivera and me? Has he told you anything?” Henry shook his head.

“Well.” He stood very still. “… Rivera trusts you, which is something in and of itself. Hmmm. All right.” He apparently crossed some sort of mental Rubicon. “Okay. Rivera and I grew up in the same orphanage. Both of us were foundlings, both of our moms abandoned us in front of the church. A lot of people did that, was tough times around here in the years after the First World War. I suppose it was too hard for my mom, and his too, I guess. So we were dumped, me on Halloween. That’s where my name comes from, Quintín, you know. Anyway.”

“He’s a few years older than me. I know you will be surprised to hear that he was an arrogant little shit even back then. He apparently was an arrogant baby as well, haha. Father Camilo used to make fun of him… that’s where the Trespalacios name comes from, you know. Father Camilo said he should have been born a prince or something. Three Palaces. Because just one wouldn’t be big enough to hold his head.” He grinned suddenly. “Although Father Camilo was the only one who could get away with saying something like that. Holy Mother of God was Rivera a fucking teacher’s pet.”

“So. He didn’t make many friends there due to his wonderful personality. And… Neither did I. I don’t look quite… right.” He flicked his hair. “The hair and eyes, mostly. The other kids called me _el hijo del diablo_ , the devil’s son. Sometimes I kind of wonder if that is the reason I was dumped. Couldn’t have been easy, some girl having a baby with red hair and weird eyes. The kids were pretty fucking annoying about that, actually. Some of the older boys tried to take a pop every now and then, too. But I learned early on to swing my fists back, and hard. And Rivera, well, his mouth has a way of writing checks his body can’t cash. Mine too, I guess. Although, he dodges around better than I do.”

He stared at Henry and frowned. “If you ever tell him I said that, I will hunt you down.”

Henry smiled and took a drink of coffee, shaking his head. “Your secret is safe.”

“Anyway, Rivera and I ended up hanging together, us against the world, sort of. And then Father Nestor came. Shit, hang on. I need to sit down.” He collapsed into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

“Take your time,” murmured Henry. He placed Quintín’s plate in front of him, eggs and toast slowly congealing. Quintín pushed them around without eating, staring at the trail of yolk and butter.

“Okay well. Father Nestor was a scientist of some sort. And he was doing assessments or something of the kids there. You know, like how advanced they were in language, math, science, various things. Seeing that the school there was up to standard. He also did other kinds of tests. Physicals. And he took skin samples, and measurements, and blood samples. And then he analyzed it all. And when he got to mine, I became his favorite subject.”

Henry stiffened, and Quintín shook his head. “No, no, not like that, although honestly I wouldn’t put it past him. But he was so nice to me, you know. No one else was. And I loved him for it. But Father Camilo, he wouldn’t let him take me away.”

“Father Nestor worked with me a lot. He took blood samples, worked on improving me physically, and so on. Gave me these special treatments and. He did stuff to me. I was sick a lot, and honestly, I don’t remember a lot of stuff then, some of it seems really hazy and it kind of all runs together. But it didn’t matter. I ate it up because I wanted Nestor to love me back. I wanted him to take me away. And sometimes he said he would, that he’d take me with him and we’d go off and have adventures and do fun things together, and wouldn’t I just fucking love that? All I had to do was be a good boy, such a good boy, and take this pill and tell him all about how it made me feel.”

His voice was furious suddenly, the words spilling forth in a torrent. “He did some other stuff too, I don’t even know what he did, but sometimes after taking the pills I’d wake up, and have bandages and cuts in various places. He and Father Camilo started arguing a lot around that time. They’d been best friends, and I’m pretty sure Father Camilo invited him there in the first place. But Rivera told me Camilo tried to get Father Nestor recalled, whatever the hell that means. But whatever he did didn’t work. And then Father Camilo got sent away for a long time, and Father Nestor was in charge, and it was even worse.”

“Rivera tried to tell me that there was going to be a price, but I didn’t listen. By that time I figured I was already paying, and paying and paying, so it didn’t matter. None of it really mattered, and who’d care anyway.” He paused and drank some coffee. “I remember, near the end, I was lying there, and I remember Father Camilo looking at me, it was like he was a dream, you know, all wavery and blurry, like he wasn’t real. And I heard Father Nestor saying something about unique opportunities and mutations and a bunch of other stuff I didn’t understand. Something about my blood. And Father Camilo, I remember his face. Camilo, he was a funny guy, used to laugh and make stupid jokes about everything. It used to make Rivera crazy because he thought a priest should be a little more serious, but Father Camilo made you think about stuff too. And when he looked at me, I don’t even know what was in his head, but he looked so sad, and he was furious, I could see that. And then he was gone.”

“Father Nestor had me all to himself then. I slept a lot, I guess. I hurt all the fucking time. Everywhere. _Everywhere_. And there were always things in my arms, and my mouth, and up my nose, and cuts, and shots of shit that burned up my veins, and bandages and blood. And I know that bastard changed me somehow. I can see in the fucking dark now, for one thing. But no one came to see me or how I was doing. Rivera told me later that everyone thought I was dead. He didn’t believe it, purely because it was Father Nestor that said so, and also because he’s a bastard who needs to see things with his own eyes. So he found me, found where Nestor had hidden me away. See, Father Nestor had a little clinic in the church basement he’d made, and he was working out of it by that time. I had a room there and everything. The first fucking time in my life I wasn’t surrounded by other people.”

“I don’t know what Rivera saw down there. I barely remember him getting me out, him carrying me. Him. It’s kind of funny to think of.” He huffed out a laugh.

“And I saw Father Camilo watching us, and he smiled at me and Rivera. And there were other people, men, and guns, and Rivera pulled me along and Father Camilo stood between us and winked at us and I swear there was a fucking halo around him and he raised his arms wide just like wings and he just let them shoot him while we ran away. I saw him fall, and he was all glowing and bloody.” He was quiet for a long time, staring off into space.

“Rivera, he had stolen a car and left it ready, so we just drove off in the confusion. And it was that easy. It took me a couple of weeks to come down from whatever he’d doped me up with, which was pretty fucking rough, until Rivera said he was done wiping my puke up. And then we split up not long after that. Rivera blames me for Father Camilo. And he’s right about that. I blame me too. And it took something out of him, killed something just as dead as Father Camilo. And I’m to blame for that too. So now you know. That’s all about how I met Rivera.” He laughed. “He’s done all right by himself, anyway. I always thought he’d become a priest. But a PI is pretty swell too.”

Henry said “And you’ve kept in touch ever since?”

Quintín shrugged. “Sort of, off and on. He asks me about stuff now and then, stuff about the street toughs and information I can help him locate. Sometimes he gets me to do jobs for him, but they’re pity fucks mostly. When the war started, he got drafted, and I was going to volunteer for the Air Force. I was underage, but I think I could have squeaked by. And Rivera said I had shit where my brains are and told me not to be more fucking stupid than I could help. That there was no telling who Father Nestor had told about me or who he was working for in the first place. He’s probably right about that, but I sat out the war, like a bum. I would have really liked to learn to fly a plane.” He sounded a little wistful. “But we didn’t talk at all during the war. I don’t even know what he was doing or where he was, I guess it’s some big fucking secret,” he snorted. “But he came back here and started up his business.”

Henry thought about what Quintín had told him. “So where does this young person you have been hiding come in?”

Quintín ran his hands through his hair. “Okay. So the Demons, that’s Benny’s gang, right. They kidnap kids every now and then and ask for ransom. Everyone figures they just want easy money to keep their operations going. Most parents will cough up the dough right away, so it’s quick and easy, and the kid goes home in a couple of days. And maybe some of them _are_ just for money. But then I saw him, Father Nestor, coming out the back of a hospital with one of their bosses. It was just random, just chance I saw him. But it made me wonder. And I thought about it, and hung around and dressed up like an orderly at the hospital. No one ever really pays attention to the guy who is cleaning up shit. Dyed my hair, mopped up a lot of horrible stuff.” He looked vaguely disgusted. “But anyways I kept my eyes open because I _knew_ he was up to something. And I finally saw what he was doing, and where. He had a kid in there, like I had been, all doped up, threaded up. Kid’s pupils were like two pinholes when I got him away.”

“So they let you just waltz out with a sick child? And… what if it had been a sick child that needed medical attention?”

Quintín shrugged. “Most sick children don’t have armed guards standing watch around them.”

“But anyway, haha, no. I thought about how to do it for a day or two. Figured out where people were placed and where they were going to be. Figured out the timing of it all. But basically, I waited until the middle of the night, ’cause most everyone’s off their game then, set a smoldering fire in a closet, pulled a couple of fire alarms, and whoever didn’t leave the area, I sucker punched and locked away in a broom closet. There were some guys guarding him. Shot them. Loaded the kid up in a wheelchair and mostly covered him up, wheeled him out. Nothing odd about an orderly wheeling people around in a chair during a fire alarm. Drove off. Got him squared away mostly, off whatever dope he was on, and that was a bitch. Kid’s _really_ strong. Bit me a few times too when he was coming down, the little shit. But he’s eating good again. Eating me out of house and home, actually.”

He smiled faintly. “But he doesn’t remember anything: his name, where he’s from, who his people are, anything. When I saw Benny sniffing around, we went to a bolt hole I found when I was on the streets. He’ll be okay there until we can get him to Rivera. He knows to keep his head down until I get back. I stole Nestor’s notes too. Rivera can figure out stuff from that. But I figure the kid’s got freak blood too.” His voice shook with sudden, suppressed rage. “And I would like to _kill_ that fucker Nestor in the most painful and horrible way I can think of.”

“Hmm.” Whatever he said, Henry didn’t believe the rescue scenario had been as quite easy or uncomplicated as Quintín had made it out to be. But he rather thought he’d also like a turn with Father Nestor.

“I need a fucking scotch.” Quintín sounded exhausted, as if he’d finished running a race.

“I think you need a good dinner first. I’ll fix more eggs and toast,” he said, and rose. “These are… unpleasant.”

Quintín caught his arm as he rose. “Hah. You feed me too much and you’ll spoil me, and then I won’t leave. Like a stray cat.”

“I’ll take my chances,” said Henry, and fixed more eggs.

*****

It was late afternoon by the time they got underway, taking a circuitous route to ensure they weren’t being followed. Quintín took the two of them to a decrepit bridge crossing a tributary of the river. There was a small access door beneath the bridge just above the high-water mark on the river bank. Quintín had pulled brush and detritus over it to conceal it, and Henry could honestly admit he would have missed it if Quintín hadn’t pointed it out. A ladder led down a short entrance, and opened into a small, dank-smelling tunnel. Quintín flicked on a flashlight, and Henry was not surprised to see red and green algae blooming in streaks across the walls. Cables and wires were strung along the walls, and hung free in some spots. They had to creep along one after the other in the narrow tunnel, their footsteps echoing and reverberating in the tight space. Quintín paused once or twice and carefully rearranged the wires. Some sort of traps, he guessed, but Quintín didn’t explain it other than to say, “Just in case.” Up ahead a ways a light flickered in the darkness and abruptly switched off.

Quintín flashed his light twice, then a short pause, and twice again, and proceeded forward.

“S’me, twerp,” he called softly.

“Quinto?” the voice answering was young and, interestingly, unafraid. Henry heard a match flare, and then the light steadied as the kid lit a candle. He took a look around. The access tunnel opened into a surprisingly dry room with a sandy floor; it smelled earthy but not in a bad way. A sleeping bag wedged under a trestle took up most of the space, along with a milk crate holding a candle, a haphazard stack of comics and a pile of food wrappers. He recognized some of wrappers from his pantry and icebox. A couple of canteens had been discarded next to the food. A flashlight and a stack of batteries lay next to the milk crate. A kid, gangly and teenaged, idly held something that strongly resembled a spear, ready to use it if necessary. His eyes flashed golden in the dim light; his auburn hair spiky and uncombed.

“Quinto! I was worried about you!” He flung himself at Quintín and clung to him like a limpet. He had to dodge the spear.

“Hey now, no need for that,” Quintín said, hugging the kid back. “I brought a friend to help. We’re gonna get you out of here and somewhere safe.” He took a look around. “Make things easy, I figure we might as well just leave this crap. Anything you want out of here?” He kicked the sleeping bag.

“All right!” The kid immediately sounded more cheerful. “It’s pretty boring in here. I’ve read all the comics two times already.”

“Yeah, I know it’s been shitty.” He ruffled the kid’s hair. “But Henry here has a nice place we can stay for a day or so, and then another friend of mine has an even better place. You used the flashlight for light, right?”

“Yeah, just like you said.”

“Good. Okay, I’ll go first, then Henry with the flash, and you last.”

Henry was intrigued to realize that he had no idea who was protecting whom in the suggested evacuation arrangement, but apparently Quintín was making sure if there were any problems he’d find them before the other two. Henry could have told him not to bother, that he of all people didn’t need any protection from pretty much anyone-- much less any thugs that might be waiting for them-- but he was rather charmed that Quintín cared enough to think it was necessary.

He was glad when they exited into the light of the afternoon and left the lair behind; he hadn’t realized how confined the space was until he was back in the sunlight. His car waited up the road.

It was a bit of a drive back to his apartment, and he kept an eye on the kid in the back seat. Quintín was apparently snoozing in the front, and the kid watched the evening cityscape flash past the half-open window with every indication of wonder and enjoyment. He thought the kid might be around 13 or 14, with large golden eyes and an open, sunny, innocent expression. Just looking at him made Henry feel old. He wondered what it was like to have everything seem new again, everything untainted. He was fairly sure he had never felt so unguarded, but he honestly couldn’t remember anymore.

His gaze flicked to Quintín, and he caught Quintín watching him watch the kid. “Yeah, I know,” he murmured. “But I wouldn’t want to pay the price he’s paid.”

“What’s that, Quinto?” The kid leaned forward, his chin resting on the back of the seat.

“We’re talking about what to do next. Want to eat supper? Henry here is a master chef.” Quintín gave him a sideways grin.

“Yeah! I’m kind of sick of chips and candy bars. The stuff from earlier was good though.”

“Quintín, honestly!” Henry frowned. “That’s what you gave him?”

“Among other things. And hey, that’s the best kind of camp-out food.” He slouched back and grinned, closing his eyes.

The kid met Henry’s eyes in the mirror, his expression guileless. “It _was_ pretty good for a couple of days,” he allowed. “But I’d love a burger. And some new comic books.” Quintín’s grin grew wider, and Henry listened attentively all the way home as the kid listed all the food he’d especially missed during his time in the cave.

*****

As soon as they got in, Quintín made the kid wash up while he made up the bed in the spare room. “You smell horrible.” Henry heard a protest he couldn’t quite make out, but he could hear Quint’s deeper tones quite plainly. “Yeah, I know it isn’t your fault. Take a shower. We’ll wash your clothes so you’ll have something tomorrow. By the time you’re done, if you aren’t still arguing, we’ll have dinner ready.”

After dinner they played cards until the kid started nodding off. “You’re gonna fall asleep sitting up,” Quintín said, catching his shoulder as he slumped forward. He sounded amused. “Go to bed, we’ll see ya tomorrow.” The kid grinned and stretched, and shuffled off to the spare room. “G’night.” He made sure the kid was comfortable situated and then switched off the light, pulling the door shut.

Henry dealt out a new hand of cards and waited until Quintín started sorting his hand.

“How are you feeling about all this?”

Quintín studied his cards. “I can’t see that there’s really anything for me _to_ feel about it. It’s the best thing for him. He’s a swell kid, the best, and I… But he can’t stay with me. I don’t have a single thing to offer to him. And Rivera can give him a lot. He has a lot of contacts and people he knows, and he can maybe find out about him. And get him help and something to look forward to, a future. I can’t give him any of that. So it’s best this way. It’s the way it is.” He laid some cards down.

“Trespalacios said the Demons were up to something bad, but no one knew what. I wonder if this Father Nestor has become involved in their operations.” Henry laid his hand down and discarded his final card. “Gin.”

“I think so, yeah. It would make sense. Expand their kidnapping ring from local kids to kids not so easily traced. I’ve been thinking, and I bet Father Nestor picks orphans to do his worst stuff on. No one gives a shit about them or where they are.”

“Well, hopefully Trespalacios has started digging a little deeper. He knows there’s an issue with the Demons. We can—“

Quintín laid all his cards down with a snap. “Okay. You know that every time you call Rivera “Trespalacios” a little piece of my soul dies?”

Henry was startled enough to laugh, and Quintín stared at him, smiling. He flushed a little, but managed to keep his tone even. “Why’s that?”

“Lots of reasons, but the main one is it’s not his name.” Quintín returned his attention to his cards. “Our names don’t work like yours. That’s not his name. Also it sounds incredibly jumped-up, but given he’s a huge fucking snob, that’s not a big surprise.” He dealt out a new hand.

“Mm.” Henry arranged his cards.

“You disagree?” Quintín’s eyes were sharp on his face.

“I think it doesn’t matter what either of us thinks. It’s what he wants to be called.”

“Jumped. Up.”

“Didn’t you say it was a special name your Father Camilo gave him? And didn’t you say they were very close? And honestly, that’s also not exactly the phrase _I’d_ use to describe him. Gin.” He discarded and laid his cards down.

Quintín threw his cards down and took a deep drag on his cigarette. “You think I’m being unfair. To _Rivera_!” He sounded appalled and incredulous. There was a long silence while he smoked. “I’ll think about it,” he said finally.

Then he stared at Henry’s hand and the score sheet. “Are you cheating? Show me what you’re doing if you are, because I’ve been watching and I don’t see it. It’s a neat trick.”

“I would never cheat. Not in a friendly game, anyway.” Henry said with as much assumption of virtue as he could manage. Quintín grinned, and then stared at him thoughtfully, and Henry put his cards on the table, waiting.

“That’s one of the things I like about you. Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. It wouldn’t dare.”

He leaned over the table and reached slowly, like he was afraid he was going to frighten Henry away, and took Henry’s glasses and placed them carefully on the table. “And I like these, like a superhero mask covering up your eyes, part of your disguise. It makes me wonder what your secret identity is. Or your superpower. And your mouth. I like that too. I could sit and watch you talk all day. Your voice. I could listen all day, too. ” Henry knew how he felt; he could listen to Quintín talk in that husky murmur all day as well. He sat very still, and Quintín’s fingers brushed across his lips, and up over his cheekbone. “But what I really like is this, this little fringe of hair, all wild and free when everything else about you is controlled to within an inch of its life. That’s what I see.”

Henry’s eyes flicked to door the spare bedroom. “He won’t wake up,” whispered Quintín. “But it’s okay if you’d rather not.”

Henry grabbed his wrist to prevent his retreat, and kissed him hard. Quintín’s eyes fluttered shut. “We’ll wait fifteen minutes, just in case.” His voice seemed breathless, even to himself.

“Bossy! I like that as well. Sort of.” Quintín sounded rather surprised.

“You have no idea,” said Henry primly, and Quintín grinned.

“Guess we’ll find out,” he said.

*****

Early the next day Quintín borrowed twenty dollars from Henry and vanished, leaving Henry alone with the kid. Fortunately, he had decided to sleep late, and by the time he woke, stretched out and ate a hearty breakfast, Quintín had returned bearing both clean laundry and new clothes, along with some new comics.

Quintín vanished into the bathroom and showered for a very long time, and when he emerged his expression was abstracted and distant.

It was a long day for Henry, with Quintín mostly monosyllabic and the kid chatty, but Quintín emerged briefly from whatever was on his mind to discuss the new comics with the kid. The ashtray had overflowed onto Henry’s pristine table by the time it was time to go, and Henry had never been so glad to see 4pm roll around.

The curtains were drawn and the lights low when they pulled up. Trespalacios was waiting for them. The air was so thick with smoke that Henry could see beams of light shining through it, tracing out eddies and currents.

“Good of you to come in to work,” Trespalacios greeted Henry. His tone was terse; he ignored both Quintín and the kid, who didn’t seem to notice. He was caught up in the process of examining the interior of the office with every indication of interest.

Quintín’s eyes flashed, and he smiled very brightly at Trespalacios. “¡Hola, Cerecita!” He leaned over and flung his arm over Trespalacios’ shoulder. “How’s tricks?” Trespalacios knocked his arm off with one disdainful wrist. “I will fucking shoot you if you call me that again,” he promised. His voice contained all sorts of suppressed violence, and Henry was both alarmed and intrigued to see Trespalacios’ fingers actually twitch towards his gun. A part of him was curious to see if Trespalacios really would shoot at an old friend. “Maybe some other time you can _try_ ,” Quintín smiled. Something dark seethed behind that smile. “But I’ve brought a present for you.” 

Trespalacios turned and looked at the kid. “So I see. Tell me about it.” He sat on Henry’s desk and smoked while Quintín told his story, his expression harsh and drawn in the smoky light.

“So, you finally find Nestor and you make no effort to tell me about it?” he snapped at the end of it.

“I’ve been trying to call you for _weeks_ , you lazy bastard.” Quintín folded his arms, his posture defensive.

“As if you couldn’t come and tell me, you moron.”

“As if you couldn’t answer your fucking phone.”

“ _I haven’t been here_ , you stupid—”

“Then how was I supposed to tell you? This is just like you, you fucking hypocrite!”

They glared at each other, and Henry actually maneuvered to stand between them, in front of Quintín. He didn’t know quite what was going on, but he wasn’t going to allow any violence.

“Now now, perhaps we should just forge ahead and deal with the situation on the ground,” he began, and could have laughed at the twin expressions of surprised wrath directed at him. Trespalacios raised his hand and Henry wondered what would have come next-- and perhaps more importantly what he would have done in response-- but the kid had apparently finished inspecting the office.

“Are you a detective?” the kid broke in. He turned a worshipful face to Trespalacios.

“Yeah, he’s like the fucking Batman. Or is it the fucking Shadow?” Quintín said with some malice.

“That would be a pretty good trick, if he was like the Shadow,” observed the kid.

Quintín rolled his eyes and patted his pockets for his pack of cigarettes. “That’s true. Seeing him vanish right now would be pretty swell.” Trespalacios’ fingers twitched towards his gun again, then relaxed.

“I’m not like either the Batman or the Shadow, because they don’t exist,” snapped Trespalacios.

“But you can find things out, right?”

Quintín stared hard at Trespalacios over the kid’s head. Their eyes met and apparently they came to some sort of unspoken mutual decision.

“I’ll try to find out anything you want to know,” Trespalacios said finally.

“No secrets?” the kid asked. His head tilted and he watched the three of them, assessing and judging.

“No secrets,” said Trespalacios. He took a hard drag on his cigarette.

“Fine,” said Quintín, and looked away.

Henry paused. “Not everyone’s past is suitable for—” he began, and both Quintín and Trespalacios stared at him, Quintín pained and embarrassed, his gaze shifted to the side; Trespalacios with a contemptuous little smile.

“Oh very well,” he said, and gave in with a little sigh. Maybe in the end it would be liberating in a way to finally have people from whom he didn’t need to hide himself.

“Good,” said the kid. “I don’t like secrets.”

He sat down next to Trespalacios and tugged at the sleeve of his grey wool suit. “My secret is, I think I know you,” he continued, and his voice was dreamy. A shudder crawled down Henry’s spine. If he believed in such things, he knew he’d have felt fate as it twisted and jittered. Quintín inhaled sharply, and Trespalacios’ shoulders jerked.

“Okay, well, time for us to get back,” said Quintín carefully. “Take care, twerp. I’ll see you later.” He ruffled the kid’s hair and turned to go.

“Gustavo,” said Trespalacios.

“Eh?”

“He’s Gustavo. He needs a name. What do you think?” He turned to the kid, who smiled.

“I like it. It feels… right. It’d be funny if that turned out to be my real name.”

“All right, then see ya later, Gustavo.” Quintín winked and left. The little bell jingled merrily as the door closed.

“Remember what I said about him,” said Trespalacios.

“Which time?” Henry asked, and Trespalacios smiled sourly.

“Don’t be a moron on top of everything else. Take the rest of the week off, if you like. I’ll be busy.”

Henry grabbed his hat and left.

*****

“You can drop me at my place if you like,” said Quintín.

“What if I don’t like?” said Henry brightly. Quintín glanced at him from sideways, then leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.

“Well, I’d appreciate it anyway. I need to start cleaning up. And maybe the twerp wants some of the things there, if there’s anything left worth salvaging.” He scrubbed his hands over his face.

“We could get something to eat and work on it tomorrow,” suggested Henry. “Trespalacios told me to take the week off. I could help you out. You can’t possibly stay there tonight anyway.”

“Fine. Let’s go to that diner we ate at the other day.” Quintín sounded very tired. “Sorry, got a bit of a headache,” he muttered when he caught Henry eying him.

They ordered dinner, and were waiting for it to be brought when someone slid into the seat next to Quintín.

“Oy, muchacho, long time no see,” he said. Quintín rolled his eyes and smiled. His posture was very stiff.

“Benny,” he greeted him. “Yeah. Henry, this is my friend Benny. Benny, Henry.”

Benny looked almost exactly as Quintín had described him, but Quintín had somehow neglected to mention his general air of shiftlessness and seediness. There wasn’t any one thing in particular that struck Henry as off; the fact of the matter was he just plain did not either like or trust Benny from the first instant he met him. And he wondered that Quintín, whose instincts in general had seemed superior, would associate with such a person. He supposed that made him a snob.

He and Benny exchanged glances over the table, and Benny threw his arm over the back of the bench he and Quintín sat at. It was almost proprietary and Henry forced himself not to bristle. It was what the cretin wanted.

Benny looked amused. “Trading up, Quinto?” He leaned forward and trailed his finger down Henry’s cheek, and Quintín flinched.

“Fuck’s sake, Benny,” he muttered, and glanced away when Henry caught Benny’s hand and laid it on the table. It was difficult not to squeeze hard, hard enough to crack bone, to rupture tendons, to rend flesh… but he certainly thought about it.

Their food arrived, and Benny ate the fries from Quintín’s plate, until Quintín finally pushed it in front of him. “Not all that hungry, sorry. Eat up.”

It was one of the most excruciating meals he had ever endured, and he didn’t miss the look of relief that flashed across Quintín’s face when it finally ended. “I am going to go wash my hands,” he murmured and unhurriedly left. He also didn’t miss the soft laugh that Benny uttered as he walked away.

He splashed water on his face in the bathroom, and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were hard, his mouth tight. He worked on relaxing his features until he looked almost normal. He force his lips into a smile curve, but unfortunately there was nothing he could do to make his eyes look less like he wanted to… do terrible things to Benny.

He paid the check on the way back, and was unsurprised to see Quintín and Benny engaged in earnest conversation. It stuttered to a stop when he approached and threw a bill on the table for a tip.

Benny leaned back against the seat and smirked up at them both as Quintín rose to leave. “Seeya later, Quinto.” He popped a fry into his mouth.

“Sure thing,” said Quintín, and waved goodbye over his shoulder.

“Thank god that’s over,” he muttered as they left.

“I thought he’s your friend,” said Henry.

Quintín said, “He was. Is. I don’t know. He helped me a lot when I was younger, I’m probably alive because of him actually, but that’s in the past now. But. I still remember. And I keep trying and trying to move ahead, but stuff keeps dragging me back. It’s like being caught in the ocean.” He sighed.

The drive back was very quiet.

Henry carefully hung up his coat and fedora when they arrived. “Are you in trouble, Quintín?” Henry finally asked, as neutrally as he could. He knew with every fiber of his body that something terrible was slithering around unspoken, but surely it was nothing they couldn’t fix, if only it were dealt with. They had promised each other ‘no secrets’ earlier, hadn’t they?

Quintín’s mouth quirked up. “Nah. Just feeling a little sorry for myself, I guess. It’s been a long day.” He stretched his lanky frame. “Probably should celebrate getting Rivera to take on the twerp.” He wandered into the kitchen and fixed them both a scotch on the rocks, and took a long, thankful slug of his.

“Good stuff, Henry,” he said, and handed Henry his glass. He poured himself another and leaned back against the counter, apparently lost in thought.

The moments ticked by, and Henry searched desperately for a neutral topic to break the silence. “Tomorrow,” said Henry, “we can work on cleaning up your apartment. Unfort… Unforchunally. “ He laughed. “ _Unfortunately_. I think. I think. Ahaha. This whiskey is apparently more potent than I thought. Hmm. How odd.”

The room began to dance and had somehow acquired a rather blurry, shining cast, and he realized Quintín was watching him closely, dark eyes rueful.

“Oh for the love of… Why?” The glass slipped from fingers growing rapidily more numb.

Quintín’s expression was pained. “Sorry, _encanto_. But it’s better this way. Much better for everyone. Really. Benny says--”

“You are a deeply stupid man,” snarled Henry, and Quintín made a noise that was probably supposed to be a laugh.

“You’ve been around Rivera too much.” Henry took a stumbling, furious step towards him, and another, and then Quintín caught him before his knees buckled. He hooked his arm around Henry’s waist and let his weight fall against his side. Quintín half-walked, half-carried him over to the sofa and arranged him comfortably. He threw a blanket over Henry, took off his glasses, folded them up, and brushed the over-long shock of dark hair out of his eyes.

“I really am sorry. If there’d been another way….” He hesitated, and then leaned over and kissed him.

The room was growing increasingly blurry, and it took the last reservoirs of his strength, but Henry managed to grind out, “Quintín. When I find you. _And I_ _will_. We will. Have. A _talk_.” The words slurred and jumbled coming out of his mouth, but Quintín seemed to understand him perfectly well.

There was a ghost of a laugh, and fingers skimmed across his mouth and cheek. Henry would have snapped at them if he could have found the energy. “Looking forward to it, _encanto_.” He heard the sounds of a leather jacket being zipped, the door open and close, and then dizziness overcame him and he slept.

*****

He woke to Trespalacios shaking him by the shoulder and yelling at him. Behind Trespalacios he could see golden eyes peering at him. The kid—Gustavo—said, “I guess he’s gone already, huh.” He rocked back on his heels and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.

“You were the last person in the world I expected that asshole to be able to trick,” Trespalacios snarled. The smoke from his cigarette enveloped both of them in a nauseating cloud. “A five-year-old should have been able to—” He cut himself short at Henry’s expression and scowled. “Are you fucking going soft?”

“I wouldn’t call it that, no,” Henry responded. His head was throbbing. He sat still for a moment and willed the nausea and vertigo to subside.

Gustavo rolled his eyes and fetched a glass of water and a couple of tabs of Alka-Seltzer. “Well,” he said cheerfully. “We’ll just have to go get him back. And then kick his ass for being stupid.”

Henry looked at his kitchen clock. 1:45 AM. It had been 5 hours since Quintín had drugged him.

“I could be interested in that,” he agreed, and Gustavo grinned at him.

Trespalacios turned around and folded his arms, thinking. “It all comes down to the Demons, doesn’t it. Well, I guess it’s time for you to take out the trash after all. Are you ready?” He glared down at Henry.

“As much as I ever will be.” He still felt fairly terrible, but he wasn’t at all sure that wasn’t going to be helpful under the circumstances. Rage—cold, righteous and otherwise-- and he were old friends.

*****

They found Benny Wilde and his friends down on 10th Street, just like the bartender had told him earlier in the week. It seemed like a lot longer ago than that. He carefully placed his fedora on the seat, got out of Trespalacios’ car and smiled at Benny. Benny took one look at Henry’s face, and whatever it was he saw there caused him to turn and start running.

He heard a commotion behind him, shouts and shots both, but it didn’t stop him as he chased Benny down and tackled him, pinning his arms to his sides with his knees. He had no proper recollection of it all, as if he were watching someone who was not him almost literally flying after Benny. But in the end he was the one seated astride Benny with his knife at Benny’s left eye.

Benny stared up at him, his eyes ringed with white, tracking the casual, weaving motions of the knife.

He smiled again. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t start peeling bits off,” he said. He poked delicately with the knife point, the tip nicking the tender skin. A trickle of blood started like a tear beneath Benny’s eye. “Or don’t. That would be fine too,” he said very gently.

Benny inhaled, and Henry could smell the fear stink wafting from him.

“It was his idea,” he babbled. He struggled beneath Henry, but Henry grinned down at him.

“I. Don’t. _Care_.” Henry jabbed again, and twisted the tip a bit. “This is the last chance. Start talking, or I will start cutting. I’ll start with your lying, betraying tongue, and then I’ll start moving to body parts. Eyes, nose, fingers, ears. Dick. And I will make it last a long, long time. And I will _enjoy_ it,” he whispered. “There are a lot of your friends I can work through as well. I don’t particularly need _you_. You’re just the icing on the cake. Or, as Quintín might say, the turd on top of the shit cupcake.”

“Shit shit shit, okay. Don’t!” he gasped as the knife tip bit in a little more. “We have… There’s an abandoned building down on 15th by the water. The priest has some sort of lab or something in there. Look there.”

“Better. Tell me more.”

“What! I don’t _know_ anything!” Henry moved the knife and stroked it lightly against his ear. “ _Wait_! The building, it’s triangular-shaped, has one of those funny rounded corners in the front.”

“What else?”

“Nothing! I don’t know anything else. But I want you to go ahead try and to break in, you _freak_.” He hocked and spit at Henry. “Loads of guys there. I hope they crush you to a red paste and paint the walls with you.”

Henry laughed. “I hope they try too,” he said, and crashed the knife haft with as much force as he could muster against Benny’s temple. The body went limp beneath him; there was no crunch of bone, so he’d probably live. Henry pondered finishing the job; it would be easy enough to slit his throat. He’d have to maneuver out of the way, of course. Arterial spray was so messy. And hard to remove from clothing as well. But the world would be a better place for it, and—

“Are you finished playing with your food? If so, let’s go.” Trespalacios’ irritated voice cut through his train of thought.

“I suppose I must be. Off to 15th Street,” he said cheerfully, and started walking.

*****

The building was easily found. The street in front appeared empty, but this area was derelict even by the standards of the east side. The street had lost a large portion of its pavement, and he could see underlayment peeking through the scarred surface. The wind was wet, blowing the oily stink of the harbor their way. One fitful street light flickered off in the distance.

“Interesting choice of location, but perhaps he feels he won’t be harassed overly much here,” Henry said, thinking out loud.

“The Demons have enough of a reputation that most people wouldn’t come looking for them either,” said Trespalacios, lighting his cigarette. He checked his gun and bullet supply. “Well, I’m set. How about you, Gustavo?”

The kid had his spear with him, Henry saw. He spun it around one finger, catching it in the other hand, and grinned. “I’m ready. That last batch wasn’t much of a workout, though.”

Trespalacios shrugged. “Maybe they keep the tough guys here to protect Nestor and whatever he’s doing down there.”

He finished his cigarette and crushed it beneath the toe of his shoe. The skirts of his overcoat swung a bit with the motion. “So here’s the plan. You lost him, so you get to go find him. Gustavo and I will fight rearguard and keep reinforcements off your back. Any questions?”

“So basically, fight our way through and get Quintín. What happens if we come across Nestor?”

“I’ll deal with Nestor,” said Trespalacios, and it sounded like both a prayer and a promise.

“On your sign then,” he said, and ran lightly to the door, opening it when Trespalacios nodded.

The interior was actually fairly well-lit, which was not apparent at all from the streets. Most of the windows had been painted black to prevent light leakage, and maybe also to make the building look even more decrepit. The door from the outside opened into a foyer, and a stairwell went both up and down to his left. A closed set of double doors appeared to lead to another area; perhaps offices for the building’s former inhabitants.

Off to the side of the room was a table, at which several men were seated playing cards. Poker chips littered the top of the table. They looked up as Henry burst in, their mouths open with surprise. One of them managed to start reaching for his gun, and then Henry was upon them, under the arm of the one with the gun; he grabbed it with a wrench of his arm and shot one of the hoods with it. He didn’t need his knife to deal with these amateurs. An elbow here, a kick to the face there, a heel crushing a kneecap there. It was all so easy it was enough to make him puke. Although honestly that thought was something he imagined Quintín might say, and that helped him regain focus. Quintín. It was far too easy for Henry to get lost in chaos.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” he suggested to the only tough still conscious. The tough bled heavily from his face, and Henry idly thought he might need surgery. “Where’s the lab?” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Trespalacios and Gustavo facing outward into the room, keeping an eye out.

The tough pointed downstairs and Henry smiled. “Excellent,” he said.

He fought his way down with Trespalacios and Gustavo trailing behind him. Occasionally he could hear more shooting and shouting. The kid seemed to enjoy the mayhem when they were attacked by another group. The spear he held was a blur in his hands as he used it. He wondered what had been done to Gustavo to augment him, but it seemed clear that at the very least his strength and speed had been increased. He recalled Quintín telling him how strong the boy was. He was just glad he could relax and let Trespalacios have his back. It seemed odd to him to be able to rely on other people.

One moment seemed to blend into the next, one group of bodies merged into the next, one set of screams segued into the next. A red veil laid over it all. Sometimes that happened. Sometimes it was hard to snap back into a normal frame of mind. He took a deep breath and forced himself to center mentally, a silent, still place in his mind; forced himself to concentrate on his goal. By the time he got to the bottom of the stairs it was very quiet, quiet enough to hear Trespalacios breathing heavily behind him, and Gustavo waving his spear idly. He couldn’t hear anyone in front of him.

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered cold bluish-grey; everything took on a cadaverous sheen. The floor and walls were tiled and spotlessly white. One entire wall, and the room beyond it, was taken up with a bank of whirring grey machines, tiny lights flickering some sort of hypnotic pattern. He couldn’t stare at it too long.

Two other walls contained tanks filled with water. Red chunks floated inside, some pulsing, some drifting listlessly in an unseen current. The room smelled of bleach and antiseptic, and, beneath that, rotting flesh. A curtained-off section with a hospital bed and monitors rested against the final wall, along with intravenous lines and some sort of breathing apparatus. Quintín lay there, IV lines in his arms, but so terribly still and pale that Henry wondered if he was even alive. He forced himself to watch as the breather rose and fell regularly, but so slowly.

“Help me unhook that shit,” said Trespalacios. He reached over and began removing the lines from Quintín’s arms.

“I’m not sure we should—“ Henry began.

“Would you rather leave him here?” Trespalacios cut him off. “Because we have two options.”

Gustavo leaned over and gingerly sniffed the air over Quintín’s body. “He’s just asleep, is all. This is just to make him so he doesn’t wake up.” He returned Henry’s skeptical look. “Trust me, I know what that stuff smells like. I’ll never forget that part.”

“Even if it isn’t, we can’t wait around here. Let’s get him and go.” Trespalacios continuing pulling out IV lines. He was surprisingly gentle, but Henry knew there’d be bruises where the needles had pierced skin.

A sliding sound off to the side caught his attention, and he turned, just in time to see a TV screen switch on in the midst of the bank of machines.

A dark-haired, middle-aged man smiled at them and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Camilo’s boy. And the psychologically-ravaged superspy war hero; the biologically-augmented child soldier; and where it all began, mutant zero himself. Or perhaps I should say, ‘mutants.’ You’re all so very interesting that it’s a pity there’s so little time to chat with you. Nevertheless, I feel I should advise you that if you take my dearest Quintín away from here, I will feel compelled to consider our agreement—into which you must know he freely and voluntarily entered—null and void.”

Trespalacios had whirled away from the hospital bed at the first sound of that voice, unctuous and menacing at the same time, then brought up his gun hand up. The TV screen exploded in a shower of glass dust and electronic sparks. A camera in the corner tracked his movements, as if mocking him. He shot it too, then emptied his gun into the banks of machines. The air began to smell of burning electronics. “Grab him, and let’s go,” he said, and stalked towards the stairs. “That shithead isn’t here. He wouldn’t have bothered with the pep talk otherwise.”

Henry wrapped Quintín in a sheet and hoisted him over his shoulder. He was a lot heavier than he appeared. It was going to be a long walk back to Trespalacios’ car.

*****

Quintín had started stirring the last block or so, and near the end of their trek Henry had difficulty holding on. He could hear muttering and slurred commentary, and once there was a wild laugh, but he couldn’t understand any of it. Trespalacios gave him a speculative look once or twice along the way, and Henry resolved to learn Spanish as soon as feasible.

“Dibs on the front,” sang Gustavo and hopped in the front seat.

Henry placed Quintín in the back, sheet and all, and climbed in next to him. The warm weight of Quintín’s body slumped against his side. “Well,” he said cheerfully. “I think that went rather well, all things considered. Of course, now there’s a criminally unethical scientist who has a grudge against all of us on the loose, as well as whatever parties are backing him and providing him with money. On the other hand, they came out a little more into the open than they perhaps planned. Maybe they are getting sloppy.” Quintín turned his face into the support of Henry’s arm and his breathing evened out into the rhythm of deep sleep.

Trespalacios said, “It would have come sooner or later in any case.” His sharp purple eyes met Henry’s in the rearview mirror. Henry tightened his hold on Quintín’s waist and waited.

“Do you have a big plan?” Trespalacios asked reluctantly.

“Yes. I plan to put Quintín to bed, and then I plan to have a good stiff drink,” said Henry instantly. “My overarching plan involves impressing upon him the extreme inadvisability of drugging me again.”

Gustavo snorted a laugh and covered his mouth with his hand.

“Henry—”

“With all due respect, Trespalacios, whatever you were about to say: it isn’t your problem.”

Trespalacios’ brow furrowed, and Henry could tell he wanted to say something further, but Gustavo’s presence balked him of the opportunity to respond more forthrightly.

“Fine. Then it had better not _become_ my problem,” he said finally.

“Oh, I do hope so as well,” Henry said.

*****

“I’m sorry,” Quintín whispered the next morning in between bouts of vomiting. Henry held his hair back and wiped the sweat from his pale face. His pupils were huge, and Henry kept the curtains shut.

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be,” Henry promised.

“Doubt that,” Quintín said, and closed his eyes. He rested his face against Henry’s leg, waiting for the next bout to hit him. His arms were covered with bruises from injections and marked from the IV needles. He might have dozed while he sat on the bathroom floor; Henry wasn’t sure about that.

Later, when he thought perhaps the worst of the dry heaving was over, he tucked cool, cool clean sheets around him and placed an empty bucket near at the side of the bed.

It took a couple of days to recover, and Quintín was more or less silent the entire time. Trespalacios and Gustavo came to visit once, but even the kid’s animated commentary didn’t really cheer him up either.

“Is Benny alive?” he asked abruptly the morning after they left.

“When I left him, he was,” said Henry, and sipped a cup of tea. “Is that why you’ve been… upset?”

“No, not really,” he said. “It’s just I don’t understand _why_.”

“Why what?” Henry fought down a rising tide of anger. He set his tea cup and saucer down with a clatter. He was vaguely surprised to see the saucer had cracked. Quintín flinched. “Why we came? I told you I would.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you…” He cut himself off when he glimpsed Henry’s expression. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I keep saying it and saying it and it’s not enough. It will never be enough.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I told Benny I wanted to cut a deal with Nestor. He relayed my terms.”

“Which were?”

“I wanted him to leave the kid alone. I pointed out I’m a big boy now, and I can take a lot more punishment than I could back in the day. And also that I was doing it of my own free will and I wouldn’t fight him and he could do whatever he wanted. If he’d stop whatever he had in mind for getting the kid back. And when Benny got back to me he said Nestor accepted my terms. So.”

“I see. Are you somehow under the impression that he would have honored your bargain?”

“Not really, but I thought it might buy you all some time.”

Henry sighed. “I can’t fault you for trying something, or for what you wanted to accomplish. But I wish you could have felt you could confide in me. Or if not me, then Trespalacios.”

Quintín raised his eyes. He looked horrified. “No, that’s not it at all. I didn’t want you, any of you, involved.”

“And you have the gall to call Trespalacios arrogant.”

Quintín’s head rocked back as if he had been slapped. “I guess so,” he murmured.

He took a deep, stabilizing breath, and then another, and wrapped his arms around Quintín. “Honestly.”

“I was so afraid,” Quintín whispered.

“I know.” He tightened his arms. “I’m sorry it took so long. I had to recover a bit from your _Mickey Finn_.” He paused. “Although, I have to admit to some admiration of your advance planning there. Nice work.”

“Yeah. I’m swell.”

“I forgive you. Don’t do it again.”

“Henry,” he said, and buried his face in Henry’s neck.

They sat together and watched the sun rise over the misty city.


End file.
